Calling In Sick
by Cerulean Pen
Summary: When the brave, courageous Finn Whitman finds himself alone with his greatest foe, he calls in a friend to battle by his side and defeat this horrible villain: the flu.


Calling In Sick

Summary: When the brave, courageous Finn Whitman finds himself alone with his greatest foe, he calls in a friend to battle by his side and defeat this horrible villain: the flu.

English Humor/Friendship Rated: T Chapters:1 Words: Finn W. & Philby

**a/n: **Okay, I know I've been dead for the past year, but I wanted to serve up this little treat in celebration of the fifth novel (which I don't have yet, but I'm getting Easter!) It's just a little Finn/Philby friend-shipping, in case somebody's having a bad day (I know I have.) Plus, I'm thinking of writing a little series of these friend one-shots. Not sure, yet. Anyway, enjoy!

It had crept up on him like a ghost in the corner, maintaining a constant vigil on him and anticipating the moment when he thought he was safe to attack. When Finnegan Lawrence Whitman awoke, the dawning sun a flaming tongue over the horizon, he realized, to his horror, that he had been struck. He was draped over death's doorstep, and, as he gazed at the Saturday morning sunshine splayed across his floor, he began to say his last goodbyes.

_Goodbye Amanda. You were beautiful. Goodbye Philby, and Willa, Maybeck and Charlene, and Jess. You were the best friends a guy could wish for. I just can't believe you'll find your fearless leader like this. _Though he would rather do a back handspring off Sunshine State Bridge than admit it, a tear glistened in his cerulean eye.

Finn listened intently a moment, confirming his dreaded suspicion. He was alone. His parents had taken his younger sister, Sarah, out for her birthday, and would most likely roll in around eight o'clock, sunburned and smiling. To find their only son dead. Finn inhaled deeply, only for this breath to be interrupted by a fit of coughing that lasted for a record two minutes.

_Wow, _he thought as half a lung appeared in his cupped hand, _this sucks. I'll die, sad and alone, in this bed. I better get somebody in here so they can write my will. _With a trembling hand, Finn reached for his cell phone, pressing the two, which was programmed to dial the number of the wisest person he was acquainted with.

"'Ello? If this isn't Willa, the police, or Webster Brothers' Funeral Home, I am hanging up in three, two-"

"Wait!" Finn choked out, utilizing an elbow to hoist himself into an, somewhat, upright position. He cleared his throat, an action that temporarily deafened the receiver on the opposite end of the speaker. "Philby, I'm dying. I need you to get over here and write my will." He swept his chestnut bangs off his perspiration-drenched brow, cringing as the silence stretched the twenty blocks that separated the two sixteen-year-old boys.

"You called me at seven-thirty, on a Saturday morning, to tell me you're dying?" the redhead uttered menacingly, his tone lacking remarkably in the comfort department. "Are you bleeding out on the kitchen floor? I'm not a 911 operator. Why don't you call somebody that cares? I don't start caring until nine."

"You're freakin' hilarious, Philby, really. I don't know why they picked you for your computer skills: you could've been a Kingdom Keeper on your humor alone." Finn began to wheeze, and his coerced himself to calm down and catch his breath. "911 is taking a day off and I don't have them on speed dial. Will you just get over here?"

"Depends." Through the crackling static, the sound of a laptop opening and whirring to life was audible, along with a soft sigh. "Okay, Finn. You've got me a decent mood. My parents are out of town, I don't have anything scheduled until five. I'll get some legal documents and we can get to work on that will. But I call your laptop."

"Deal," Finn answered with a grateful grin, practically drowning in the relief that Philby had finally cracked under the immense pressure. He may have been irritable in the "wee hours" of the morning, but he had a heart composed of solid gold. Ever since he rescued Finn at the Test Track, their relationship had grown exponentially, exceeding the bounds previously held with the other Keepers. Finn trusted Philby.

As he lay abed, the goddamn sun like an incessant light bulb through a magnifying glass, Finn attempted to diagnosis himself. While his medical knowledge was bordering nonexistent, he could at least identify his symptoms. Battering ram in his head. Cactus in his throat. Stone in his stomach. Yep. He was dying.

Finn scrimped together every ounce of strength left in his frail body and bent forward, sweeping a mound of clothes and paraphernalia from the foot of the bed. His room was not in any condition he was proud of, a fact that would most likely drive Philby up the wall. Philby was religious about neatness.

Finn had seen him in action. It wasn't a typical cleanliness-issue: it was a mop-wielding, vacuum-sucking, "look-out-he's-got-a-broom" efficiency.

Oh, well. This all had to be over-looked. Because, if he had to die, at least Philby would be by his side.

:::::

Dell Philby maneuvered his way through Orlando traffic, seated on a bicycle that had seen much better days. Meticulously organized in the basket was his laptop, a thermos of lemon tea, his cell phone, a pad of paper, pens, and a first-aid pack. There was still dew glistening on the lone vegetation sprouting through the concrete jungle, an iridescent sight he hadn't viewed in five years. It was gorgeous, yet reminded him of how early it was.

_If Finn isn't already dead, I'll kill him, _the redhead thought lethargically, though with less malice than he wished. Being ill was no picnic, especially when alone. Philby was almost never sick, excluding an isolated incident involving a fever so high, his mother got a speeding ticket on her way to the hospital. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that today.

A kaleidoscope of colors blurred before him, a spectrum of cars nearly flattening him in the street. Seething a swear word, Philby swerved, his mode of transportation creaking threateningly beneath him. The bike was preparing to fall apart from under him.

Finn's neighborhood was an enclosed circuit of beautiful houses, ivory-white and slate gray, sprawling concrete and yards. It took him a moment to distinguish Finn's from the rest, but once he recognized the Mickey Mouse sticker tacked to the mailbox, he pulled into the driveway. Philby gathered his supplies, juggling it all the way to the front porch, where a definite problem presented itself.

_Crap. It's locked and probably secured. Crap, crap, crap! _Philby set the load on an iron-framed table, trotted onto the lawn, and scooped up a decent-sized rock. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He lobbed the flint up with all his might, managing to strike Finn's bedroom window. After a minute or so, the window creaked open, and the chestnut-haired blob appeared.

"Philby, what in the world? I'm on my deathbed, I can't die knowing a window is broken!" _Lord, he's going to hallucinate. _Philby rolled his eyes and motioned towards the front door, not awake enough to yell. "Oh, sorry, sorry! I'll get out the crutches and try to get down the stairs. Maybe I'll throw myself over the banister."

_The drama queen. _The redhead stalked back to the porch and juggled his belongings while he waited, rather impatiently, for Finn to answer. Eventually, the door was thrown open, revealing a sight Philby had not witnessed since he last watched a horror flick marathon with Willa.

His eyes were glazed and cracked with vermillion veins, liquid accumulating in the folds of skin below them. Finn's nose was roughly three times it size and an odd rose color, as was his throat. The ghostly pallor of his visage was frightening, tinged green just above his cheekbones. His knees quaked and by the way he slouched, it was arguable as to whether or not the boy had a spinal cord. Images of "Poltergeist" and "The Walking Dead" flashed through his mind.

"Okay. I actually believe you might be dying. Or dead." Philby uncapped the thermos, revealing a plume of steam that was accompanied by the scent of lemon. "Here, drink this before you die." Finn rolled his glassy eyes, but did not refuse. With a soft sigh, he gulped down a mouthful of brew and shuddered at the far too bitter taste.

"Good Lord, you're trying to kill me. That was worse than when Maybeck swapped my Coke with pottery glaze," he uttered between gasps, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. As he recovered, Finn eyed the first-aid kit Philby was rummaging through with the critical eye of a physician. "Feel like coming inside, Doctor House, or should we burn the rulebook out here?"

"You must have a fever. Have you ever even watched 'House'?" Philby asked rather defensively, protecting the title of his favorite television show. "Get inside, you shouldn't be out in the cold. Or heat. Or water. So, basically, you should stay on a couch wrapped in a blanket." He shepherded a somewhat humiliated Finn into the living room and withdrew a thermometer from the kit.

"Hey, I was planning on doing that anyway. And then-OH MY GOD, what are you doing?" The ailing boy parried his friend from further tugging at his sweatpants, scarcely missing his ribcage. Philby was prepared to shove the thermometer through Finn's eye, but repressed the urge and leveled his tone.

"Look. I just need to know how severe your fever is. I can't take care of you if you don't work with me, dude." The ginger-haired doctor-in-training swiped off the tip of the medical implement and handed it to Finn. "I'll leave the room, okay? When you're done, tell me what the number is. And if you lie, I swear, you'll wish you were dead."

Philby turned and sauntered out of the living room, pressing his back against the foyer wall. There was a moment of silence, punctuated solely by the sound of fabric rustling and a slight grimace. "Hey, Philby, how come you're so medically inclined? I thought you were a die-hard techno-geek."

"Willa made me come with her to take a first-aid class a few months ago. We both have certificates. Plus, she always makes me come over when one of her brothers gets sick. We're like…those people from 'Scrubs' or 'Untold Stories of the E.R.'" He smiled lightly, as he always did when he discussed Willa and the activities they engaged in together. "You done in there?"

"You really asked that? You wanna come in and check?"

"You're a drama queen, Finnegan. Read the number to me before the thermometer cools down."

"101.7. Not what you were expecting, huh?" Philby ambled back into the den, where Finn was retying the drawstrings on his pajama bottoms. "You should invest in oral thermometers. Just a thought." Finn settled himself back on the sofa, stretching his feet out and erupting into another coughing fit that softened Philby's features.

"Fine. I won't ask you to do it again. You need fluids, lots of them. I'll go find you some juice and pills. Stay here and don't sneeze on my lap-" Finn reared his head back and elicited a noise resembling an atomic bomb detonation. Debris showered the slim computer. "Okay. I'm going to walk away and pretend I didn't see that."

With impossibly tight lips, Philby stalked into the kitchen, and Finn sheepishly used the excess cotton of his shirt to clean the glinting surface. So far, their conversations had been a bit self-degrading, but no matter what he said, Finn was eternally grateful that Philby was here. And, deep down, he was one hundred-and-ten percent sure Philby didn't mean any of his threats. They just took immense joy in annoying the hell out of one another.

"Here you go." The redhead unloaded two flutes of apple juice, a plastic cup filled with vermillion liquid, and a pair of pills. "Now, you've got an over-the-counter painkiller, some Advil, and something to wash it down," Philby recited, organizing each item as he explained it. He collapsed on the couch alongside Finn, maintaining a steely vigil on him until the medication disappeared.

Visage contorted in disgust, Finn downed both flutes of juice, washing the bitter taste out of his otherwise sticky mouth. Once the ordeal was over, he relaxed his tense muscles, leaning his aching head against the sofa's cushions. "I'm going to hope that wasn't something poisonous. Wanna watch some T.V.?"

"Sure." Philby finally untied his shoes and kicked them off, although he kept his feet planted on the rug beneath them. The common courtesy his mother more or less force-fed him came into play whenever he visited another Keeper's home.

Finn turned on the set and began to flip through the stations at a breakneck speed, not even glancing at what was playing. A flurry of faces, text, and wildlife flashed before him, dizzyingly hasty. He came to an abrupt stop on a channel he had passed thrice in the past minute, somnolent eyes widening in excitement. "Ooh, cool! Hey, look, it's 'The Exorcist'! Ever seen it?"

After a moment or two with no reply, Finn glanced at Philby, who had abruptly become sheet-white and stiffer than a surfboard. "Dude. What gives? It's just a movie. Have you seen it?"

"N-no," Philby stammered bashfully, hoping Finn wouldn't perceive the way his fingers twisted around one another in mortification. He adored horror films, but even he had his limits: ever since seeing a clip of the film at the tender age of six, he had been haunted by Linda Blair's exorcism for years. Maybe now that he was older…"But we can watch it. I'm not sc-scared."

"If you say so," Finn chuckled, tossing the remote on the coffee table and watching the darkness give way to light onscreen. Within minutes, the inflicted teenager was fast asleep, his body utilizing rest to combat whatever disease had invaded him. As he dozed, the sky began to darken, the precursor of a typical summer thunderstorm. It took two clangs of thunder and a blood-curdling shriek to rouse him.

"Wha…? What?" Finn gradually poured himself back into consciousness, his mind wrapped in satin sheets that were difficult to unravel. The living room was dim, due to the change in weather, the drawn curtains, and the blank television set. Philby was nowhere to be seen, a sight that managed to clear the fog around his head. "Philby?" he wheezed, throat parched and his heart hammering. "Where are you?"

"H-here." A crimson head, both in tress and cheek, progressively came into view from the opposite side of the loveseat, which was vertical with the television. Philby crept out from behind the piece of furniture, constantly checking over his shoulder. "I, uh, heard the -um, the thunder when I was coming back from the, er, bathroom and I tripped."

"Philby, you are the worst liar. You're terrified, admit it," Finn leered affably, pushing himself back upright. A streak of lightning lit the scope, accompanied by a boom that petrified Philby. "Since when are you a Charlene? It's lightning, not Maleficent."

The spooked boy emitted a laugh that sounded like a cross between a suffocating chicken and a dying dog's cough. "Ha, ah, ha…Charlene. Yeah, that's a good one. I'm not scared. I'm just…afraid of being possessed by the devil and/or attacked by Linda Blair."

_Time to be unnaturally mean. _Finn suppressed a guffaw, opened his eyes as wide as physically possible, and jabbed a finger towards the space behind Philby. "Oh my God, look out behind you!"

Shrieking horribly, he dove to the floor, wormed his way under the coffee table at record speed, and covered his head with his arms. "AHH! DON'T LET IT GET ME!" The moment those words left his mouth, the entire residence was plunged into oblivion, darker than the deepest regions of space. Even Finn paled considerably and could only sit, paralyzed, as a symphony of clicks played throughout the house. Nothing was on. There was no light.

Something seized his ankle, digging its claws into the exposed flesh. "I'm going to kill you," it growled gutturally, and all thoughts of Philby flew from his head in an instant. Finn screamed, shaking his left leg, which resulted in several thuds of something solid slamming into the table. "AAH! OW, OW! WHAT THE-STOP!"

Panting wildly, Finn pulled his entire body onto the pillow he had been resting on, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. A pair of emerald corneas gleamed beneath him, filmed with shimmering tears. "Ow! I think you busted my elbow." With a soft groan, Philby scrambled to his feet, craning his neck for a glimpse of his wounded arm. Indeed, blood was trickling down his forearm and the sight of it almost launched him into, yet another, spiel.

"Well, what do you expect? You grabbed my ankle and yelled 'I'm going to kill you' seconds after a power outage!" Finn quickly turned his head to sneeze into his own elbow, continuing with his rant as if nothing had happened. "That was cruel, dude. I know you were mad, but-"

"MAD? I'm emotionally scarred, physically scarred, and emotionally scarred! That's three therapy trips! _Three! _Look, I know you're sick and all, but this wasn't just mean, man, this was cruel. I'm bleeding…oh God, I'm bleeding…" The floor tilted crazily beneath him, and Philby crashed to the couch, pressing his shirt's fabric bottom against the gash. "Ever have this weird feeling that you're going to pass out and have a stroke?"

His fury was fleeting; Finn had to admit, he had terrified Philby and that wasn't fair game between them, especially if one of them was hurt. "I thought you took a first-aid class," Finn spoke up as he rose, shuffling towards the bathroom in search of a washcloth and some bandages.

"I…I wasn't there…the day we did…blood…" There was about five seconds of silence between each of Philby's words and his voice was shaky. "I had…computer class…and…an orthodontist…appointment." Finn dampened the square of cloth, wringing it out and slinging it over his warm forearm. He opened the medicine cabinet, removed the unopened box of sterilized dressing.

"Well, calm down, don't take your shirt off it. Stay with me, I can't have you passing out." Finn used his shoulder to shut the cabinet and he tottered back into the living room, just as a fork of lightning flashed nearby. It illuminated Philby's stricken expression, his blood-stained hand. Unspeakable guilt and pity washed over Finn, as did a wave of dizziness.

"Hey…Finn…did I ever tell you…that I…I really…really…really, really…like Willa?" _Oh, message. He's loopy. Very loopy. _Finn pressed the cool washcloth to the lesion, waiting a moment for it to soak. When it did, Finn speedily wrapped the bandages around his elbow, adding an extra layer in case the blood started seeping. "Ow…wait…that feels really…good."

"Good. I'll get us some juice, you need to drink something." Finn jogged to the refrigerator, letting the frigid radiance fall over him like the light of God. The ice cream…it was tantalizing, wafts of chocolate and mint goodness whirling around him. He absently grabbed the bottle of juice, two glasses, two spoons, and the frozen carton of ice cream.

Philby was slowly gathering his bearings, trying to calm himself down after all the excitement. A horror flick plus a power outage plus an injury plus a sick Finn did not equal anything particularly wonderful. Still…he had yet to recall a time when he had more fun. Finn reappeared, pouring sparkling apple into either tumbler. "Surprise, surprise. You get to share my ice cream."

"Fantastic. You'll get to take care of me when I catch whatever you have through your disease-ridden ice cream," Philby muttered through a spoonful of dairy goodness. He was never one to turn down a delectable dessert, even if it had Finn germs in it.

"At least when I take care of you, it won't involve nasty tea, 'The Exorcist', thunderstorms, and almost passing out. And I won't act like Doctor House." Philby rolled his eyes, shoveled another scoop of ice cream in, and watched as Finn coughed dangerously near the carton.

:::::

Two hours later, the two boys lay side by side, succumbing to the flu, blood loss, and an ice cream coma. It was a miracle neither was conscious, because if they were, they would have seen how their hands rested on each other's chests.

:::::

Finnegan Lawrence Whitman was whisked from the realm of consciousness by the brisk ringing of his cell phone, an odd event for so early a Saturday morning. With a yawn, he flipped it open and his ear drums were nearly shattered by a strangled cough that roared along with the static. Instead of panicking, he smirked, rolled out of bed, and reached for the thermometer of torture. "Want me to bring by a copy of 'The Exorcist'?"

"Not funny."

**a/n: **Okay. Wow. It's been forever since I've written actual humor, Kingdom Keepers, and bromance. I know this went on forever and was laced with sarcasm, but if you made it all the way here, I congratulate you. Now that you're here, leave a review. For Finn and Philby's sake.


End file.
